


Ebb and Flow

by Silveriss



Series: Palmetto by the Sea [2]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Allison & Neil are BFF, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Exy (All For The Game), Chef!Andrew Minyard, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Linguistics, M/M, Minor Allison Reynolds/Renee Walker, POV Neil Josten, Panic Attacks, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Student!Neil Josten, Texting, Trauma, food as a love language, marathons, softer than canon, the sea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29341590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silveriss/pseuds/Silveriss
Summary: Neil, who enjoys running marathons, and Andrew, who enjoys... not running marathons, meet at Eden's through Allison and Renee. With the ebb and flow of the sea as rhythm, their relationship grows.Or: Student!Neil and Chef!Andrew, in a coastal town that's probably more mediterranean than any US city has any right being. Expect many descriptions of the sea.
Relationships: Neil Josten & Allison Reynolds, Neil Josten & Andrew Minyard, Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Series: Palmetto by the Sea [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2050182
Comments: 35
Kudos: 99





	1. Running, Texting & Phonetics

**Author's Note:**

> So, it's been two months. Oops. I would say I'm sorry, and I am, but honestly I've never been good at keeping to a schedule and I doubt it's going to change any time soon. I _am_ going to try and stick to one chapter a month, but I can make no promises.  
> That being said, I do have three and a half chapters written already (including this one), so I'm optimistic. I picked 10 as the projected number of chapters because it seemed reasonable, but it's probably going to change. The tags are also likely to evolve.
> 
> Anyway! Thank you so much to any of you who's read _A wingman winged_ (part 1 of this AU) and left kudos and/or a comment. This little idea of mine got way more attention than I ever would have thought and y'all are literally the reason why I've kept at it. Seriously - you don't know how much joy those emails bring to my days.  
> A huge thank you as well to the amazing, the talented, the ever-so-king [makebelieveanything](https://archiveofourown.org/users/makebelieveanything/pseuds/makebelieveanything) for accepting to beta this fic. The amount of Frenchisms she caught was staggering. And thank you Eli for being a great friend and making me want to write.
> 
> Speaking of Frenchisms: Hello, I'm French! I grew up on the Mediterranean coast specifically. This fic is born from my love for the sea, specifically the one that's home. I have therefore taken a number of liberties regarding the location of Palmetto, which is theoretically the US of A, but is probably going to look a lot more like my very-not-American hometown.  
> I have also decided to use "iodine" and "iodic" as I would in French, because it simply sounds better than "briny" or "saline". No offense. (Don't blame my beta, she tried to discourage me. I'm stubborn.)
> 
> FYI: This fic is going to be soft, because I am. But it's also going to feature Neil and Andrew (and, though in a less major way, Allison) dealing with and talking about their respective trauma. I'll try and put the appropriate trigger warnings each time, but consider this a general statement.
> 
> I've decided to try to use footnotes for translations this time around, as suggested by my beta. She always has great ideas, so hopefully this'll work out! Let me know if it doesn't.
> 
> [TW for Ch1: scars]

**[From: Allison]** ???

 **[From: Allison]** ur serious arent u

 **[From: Allison]** omg ur totally serious

 **[From: Allison]** baby neil on his first date

 **[From: Allison]** i cant believe ur ignoring me rn

 **[From: Allison]** u better tell me everything tomorro

 **[From: Allison]** dont do anything i wouldnt do ;-*

 **[From: Allison]** xoxo

Neil rolls his eyes at the message notifications blaring across the screen and turns his alarm off with a press of the power button. The screen goes black and he drops his hand on the bed, rolling over on his back with a sigh.

A trickle of light filters through the blinds, a pale yellow that tells of early morning dew and sunrise. It softens the bare walls of his bedroom, casting faint dotted lines across the white paint and his cream colored sheets. The room smells of sweat and home, but there’s an underlining of salt rippling across the surface, bringing forth memories of the night before that suddenly make Neil’s phone a lot more interesting.

He sits up, brushing stray strands of hair off his face, and opens the contact app. There, just under Abby’s name, is proof that he didn’t make up the pier and everything else surrounding it in his sleep.

Neil pulls up the contact’s page and reads the name out loud, testing out the syllables on his tongue.

_Andrew J. Minyard._

Neil, of all people, knows the importance of a name. The fact that Andrew willingly offered him his, along with a way to contact him should he want to, is almost dizzying. He’s never had someone give him their number before, not like this. He already knew everyone else before he even got a phone - the medical professionals not included, but they hardly count.

Neil’s fingers hover over the small messaging icon, hesitation warring with excitement for no more than a second. The message app takes over the screen and he types his text quickly, re-reading it only once for a spelling check before he sends it. 

**[To: Andrew Minyard]** Hi. This is Neil.

Satisfied, he turns the screen off and gets out of bed. He presses the open button next to the blinds and picks up his running clothes; by the time he’s dressed, the eye of daylight has opened past the bullet scar in his side and is edging into hot iron territory, warmth from the sun lazily chasing the tendrils of sleep still draped across his limbs. Neil rubs at his shoulder out of habit then at his arms, covered by the long sleeves of his running shirt. His skin has had the time to heal wholly and well by now, Abby and his doctor made sure of it, but he can’t shake off the feeling that the skin is somehow tighter there, more tender, as if the wounds were itching to come back. He tries to avoid looking at the scars when he can, but their number and the surface area they cover makes it difficult. Even if he wore gloves there’d still be the issue of his face.

The light spills over the crown of his head and the rumbling of the blinds turns itself off. Neil grabs his earbuds and his phone and leaves his bedroom for the kitchen, where the morning light isn’t direct and therefore more subdued.

He picks a few pieces of fruits from a basket and cuts them up, then dumps them into the blender for his morning smoothie. It’s early spring and the green grocer two blocks away is run by a curly-haired woman named Helen, who speaks better Greek than English and always adds what she calls her “season’s favorite” to Neil’s bag for free whenever he stops by, so he’s got rhubarb, grapefruits, and a shit ton of kumquats. It makes for a rather sour wake-up kick, which Neil likes, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to the apricots and berries that’ll arrive once the season really kicks off.

It’s a few minutes past 8 by the time he leaves the apartment. There’s a nice park just a couple blocks over that’s perfect for his warm-up, so that’s where he’s heading first. The city is drowsy still, even as the sun shines bright, a proper Sunday morning with only birds and a few early-risers for company. It’s Neil’s favorite time of the week to run, and he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Even when he’d sprained his ankle he’d gone out at the usual hour, if not to run then at least to walk around, and if not to walk then to hop, awkwardly leaning on his crutches, all the way to the park.

His legs run a little cold at first with the morning breeze, but after a few laps around the park it’s the long sleeves that are starting to become uncomfortable. He crosses paths with a fellow runner at some point, and someone walking their dog a little later, but other than that the park is all his.

He leaves it behind after his fourth lap, catching a street that’ll lead him to the canal. The city pedestrianized a good portion of it when they re-did the pier a while back, so strolling along the canal has become a local habit for runners, families, and the occasional tourists, but it’s deserted before 10. 

He follows the dirt path lining the water, shaded with willows and bordered by reeds and various humidity-loving bushes. His head is full with the scent of soil and silt, the breeze ruffling through the bushes, the sound of his footsteps reverberating from his sole to his ankle to his shin to his knee, his hips, all the way to his chest where it sinks into his heartbeat, turning his whole body into a drum as the rhythm courses through his veins. 

The sea announces its presence before he can see it.

It teases his nose first, saline ribbons fluttering in the breeze; then it’s the wind rushing through, blowing his hair back with one swift gust; until finally the sea blooms beyond the docks, wild as the sky and shining like a thousand suns as it breaks the city wide open.

The horizon steals Neil’s breath away.

He slows down, for a moment. Swallows some water. The stone slabs are hard under his feet as he trots, white like a pearl and smooth as patina. Sea salt fills the air, gives it a different texture before it’s even touched the tongue. The sun is bright above, and clear, the limit between sky and water only made fuzzy by the morning haze out on the open sea. Sunrays shatter into jewels upon the surface, or ricochet upon the docks, catching Neil’s eyes in blinding fragments. Everything feels washed and raw and beautiful, and Neil pushes on past his usual turning point.

He makes it to the pier, where the street vendors are setting up shop and the smell of frying oil is encrusted into the wood, and the sound of his feet hitting the ground goes through changes yet again. It’s more hollow now, each footstep echoing under the planks below, making waves in Neil’s chest every time his lungs fill up. Everything feels vaster by the sea.

He finds the spot where they ate easily. It’s a whole different place in daylight, but he knows he’s right when he sees Anas’ kebab joint across the street, closed at last. He swears he can still smell the meat, even then. It makes his mouth water just thinking about it.

He pushes further still. The salt in the air dries his mouth, so he slows down again when he reaches the end of the pier, and washes it down with water. The run back is no less chest-opening than the run there, but by the time he makes it back to the canal the sun has gone on with its revolution and is now halfway to its zenith, so Neil really appreciates the shade provided by the occasional willow. He dials down the running to a brisk walk once he takes his turn off the canal’s bank, and then again to a regular walking pace upon reaching his own street.

Three flights of stairs, stretching, water, and he goes straight to the shower. He makes it a long one, drawing out the usual five into ten long minutes because it’s Sunday and he just ran close to double his usual distance.

Once he’s clean, he pours himself a bowl of cereal. Sits down. Lets his body work through the usual wave of endorphins and sore spots.

It’s 10 am. The message notifications have gone up from 8 to 9. Neil clicks on the most recent one first.

**[From: Andrew J. Minyard]** Hello Neil.

Simple and straight to the point, just like his own message. Neil exits the near-empty conversation and switches to Allison’s. She hasn’t sent any new ones, which probably means she’s still out to the world. Neil starts with the easiest point to correct.

**[To: Allison]** It wasn’t a date.

He sets the phone down upon the counter and eats a spoonful of cereal. The screen lights up.

**[From: Allison]** ur texting awfully late neil did u sleep in? did someone have a late night last night?

So she wasn’t sleeping after all. Neil rolls his eyes and picks up the phone.

**[To: Allison]** Not really. I just went running.

**[From: Allison]** B4 telling me all about ur date? im hurt

**[To: Allison]** Not a date.

**[From: Allison]** sure, u keep telling urself that

 **[From: Allison]** how was ur not-date w/ Mr Frownface?

Neil snorts at the nickname. It’s not that Andrew’s always frowning - from what he’s seen from the man, it’s more that his default setting is the blankest face on earth. Whether it’s a defense mechanism, a genuine lack of facial expressiveness, or a mix of the two, Neil isn’t sure yet.

**[To: Allison]** It was nice. We had kebabs from this place by the pier that stays open til 3.

**[From: Allison]** oh yeah i know the one. good pick

 **[From: Allison]** so dinner huh

 **[From: Allison]** i know you, so im gonna assume you didn’t go back to the guy’s place

**[To: Allison]** No, he just dropped me off.

**[From: Allison]** uh huh

 **[From: Allison]** i see

 **[From: Allison]** did he give u his #? *manicure emoji*

Neil rolls his eyes again. He’s not stupid - he knows perfectly well what Allison’s not-so-subtly implying. But he’d told Andrew back in Eden’s that he doesn’t swing. They’d just needed a change of air. There was definitely curiosity there, maybe even interest, but not the kind Allison was fishing for. The fact that they’d exchanged numbers didn’t have to be anything else but what it was.

**[To: Allison]** Yes.

**[From: Allison]** *eye emoji*

**[To: Allison]** Did you?

He hits send and puts the phone down, happy to let Allison type away while he washes his bowl and smoothie cup. He has five new messages when he’s done.

**[From: Allison]** deflection. i taught you well. ur lucky im dying to talk about it

 **[From: Allison]** i did get her # yes obv

 **[From: Allison]** i also got a kiss on the cheek good night

 **[From: Allison]** she’s so pretty and it was so cute i thought i’d die

 **[From: Allison]** i wouldve brought her back to my place but she doesnt do casual

**[To: Allison]** Is that a good or a bad thing?

**[From: Allison]** idk

 **[From: Allison]** I haven't dated since seth

 **[From: Allison]** might be time to try again though

**[To: Allison]** Take your time if you don’t know. There’s no rush.

**[From: Allison]** i know <3

 **[From: Allison]** gotta run, already late for practice

 **[From: Allison]** u better enjoy ur free morning for me

**[To: Allison]** I’ll study in your name.

**[From: Allison]** dont u dare

* * *

The contact sits untouched in Neil’s phone for three days. Fourteen letters, three words, and a period. His mind conjures it on its own sometimes, when he can’t bring himself to even look at, let alone study, the phonetic alphabet he’s supposed to memorize. He loves languages, loves studying the science of them, loves _every-fucking-thing about his license_ except the phonetics class.

Neil drops his head onto the table. It’s the fifth time he’s gone over the whole grid without taking in any of it.

He groans and grabs his phone.

Fuck Ms. Trusseaud and everything she stands for.

He pulls up the message app. His thumb hovers over Andrew’s name for a split second - is he even allowed to send something, or is there another social rule he’s not aware of that would make that seem rude?

Neil groans again at himself. He clicks the name and starts typing whatever comes to his mind, social decorum be damned. It’s not like he’s got anything to lose, anyway.

**[To: Andrew J. Minyard]** You’re lucky you’ve never had to learn the phonetic alphabet.

There. Done. This is Andrew’s problem now.

He waits for a second to see if he’s going to answer right away, but when nothing happens he opens his conversation with Matt.

**[To: Matt]** Remind me why I ever thought registering for university was a good idea?

**[From: Matt]** Because you want to reclaim the youth and opportunities your family’s criminal background never allowed you to experience?

**[To: Matt]** If I’d known it was going to include fucking phonetics, I’d have accepted Kevin’s offer to be his pet project.

**[From: Matt]** You don’t mean that :(

**[To: Matt]** You’re right, I don’t. Even Ms. Trusseaud is better than Kevin.

**[From: Matt]** Do you want to come over? We’re making empanadas tonight

 **[From: Matt]** You can exterorize your hatred of phonetics on the dough

 **[From: Matt]** *exteriorize

Neil looks from the papers spread out over the table to his fridge, hopelessly empty. He was supposed to buy groceries today, and forgot. It’s not a hard choice.

**[To: Matt]** I’ll be there in 20.

**[From: Matt]** :D!!!!

* * *

Dinner at Matt and Dan’s place is a simple ordeal, smoothed over by waves upon waves of similar occasions. Matt was right when he said that working the dough would help Neil get phonetics out of his mind, but so does the whole evening. Helping Matt cook is something he does out of reflex by now, and conversation flows easily between them, with occasional interventions by Dan from where she’s working on the dinner table.

Their flat is bigger than Neil’s, and significantly better furnished. For all that he’s settled into his new life, there are some things Neil just can’t seem to work past. His therapist told him that he’ll get there eventually, but his place is almost as barren now as it was when he first moved in, so he doesn’t share her optimism. Dan and Matt’s flat, on the other hand, is so deeply imprinted with their lives that Neil cannot ever imagine them moving out - even though it’s a rental, and all evidence points towards the opposite. It doesn’t help that he’s gotten used to being welcome here whenever he pleases. At this point, their flat is more of a home to him than his own.

He’s definitely partial to their kitchen.

Matt fills the empanadas with some sort of curry he’s been dying to try for a while, and requisitions Neil’s help to egg the shells. While it cooks and Dan wraps up her work, Matt quizzes Neil on his phonetics. Some of it must have gotten through to his brain, somehow, because he gets more than half the symbols right.

The empanadas are an unsurprising success, although Neil does burn his palate with the first bite.

“You’re still up for Saturday?” Matt asks him halfway into his second empanada. “It won’t interfere with your reviewing?”

Neil shakes his head. “The marathon’s in a month, I can’t slack off now. I’ll just study on Sunday.”

The Palmetto Marathon isn’t one of the most notorious by far, but it’s still a big event for the city, and the route has been praised for its scenery. Dan, Matt, and Neil have been competing together every year since Neil moved here three years ago, and both Dan and Matt had been regular participants for five more years before that. It’s where they met, and where Dan proposed last year, from her third place on the women’s podium. Neil doesn’t think he’s ever seen either of them cry as much as they did that day.

They try to make it to a couple more marathons a year, but Palmetto’s is the only one they never miss.

“Well, if you need any help studying, you know who to call,” Dan offers with a grin. “And Matt can always cook for you.”

“I know how to cook,” Neil points out. It earns him a pointed look from Dan. “I’m better than you.”

“Barely,” Dan counters, at the same time that Matt snorts, “That’s not hard.”

Dan kicks his shin under the table and Matt yelps, startling a snort out of Neil.

“What I meant,” Dan tells him, ignoring Matt’s indignant look, “is that you can ask us for help if you feel overwhelmed. I know it’s not always easy balancing your shifts at the store.”

“Yeah, you know we’re always here for you, man,” Matt adds, smiling as he hands Neil the salad bowl. “We can always make time.”

Neil smiles back. He grabs the bowl from Matt and drops a serving on his plate, then hands it off to Dan. “Thank you. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Matt winks at him, and the conversation moves from Neil to Dan’s classes and the club’s next matches. When she’s not teaching PE at the public high school nearby, she coaches both teen teams at the local rugby club, and this season’s been pretty hard on the boys. She’s been trying to raise their spirits for weeks, with limited success.

By the time Neil leaves, it’s well past 10pm and Ms. Trusseaud’s stupid alphabet is the last thing on his mind. The walk to his apartment is short and brisk, the night’s breeze pressing his steps under the yellow glow of the city lamps. The sky is clear, but he still can’t see the stars as well as he did on the pier.

Which reminds him - he’s got a new message from Andrew, sent about an hour ago.

**[From: Andrew]** kraɪ mi ə ˈrɪvər. aɪ slaɪst ˈʌnjənz fɔr θri ˈaʊərz təˈdeɪ. [1]

Neil scoffs at the symbols glaring at him from the screen and starts typing, one eye on the sidewalk.

**[To: Andrew]** Fuck you.

 **[To: Andrew]** You googled that.

The response is immediate.

**[From: Andrew]** Obviously. I don’t have that kind of time to waste.

But he still has time to text with Neil at 10pm on a weeknight. Neil smirks.

**[To: Andrew]** Got too many onions to slice?

**[From: Andrew]** *middle finger*

Neil snorts at the emoji and pockets his phone, fishing his keys out of his pocket. He’s halfway across the lobby when he remembers one of the questions that had popped into his head earlier, when he’d been staring at the phonetics grid.

**[To: Andrew]** Are there cooking schools?

**[From: Andrew]** Yes.

**[To: Andrew]** Did you go to one?

He has to put his phone back into his pocket when he reaches his floor. It buzzes twice as he unlocks his door. He toes his shoes off and turns the screen on again.

**[From: Andrew]** No.

 **[From: Andrew]** Why are you learning phonetics?

**[To: Andrew]** Linguistics major.

He takes his jacket off and turns the light on in his kitchen-slash-dining room, settling into the sofa Allison bought him last Christmas to replace the ‘monstrosity’ he’d bought second-hand two days after moving in.

**[To: Andrew]** Where did you learn to cook?

**[From: Andrew]** It’s called a kitchen, Neil. You might have heard of it.

Neil rolls his eyes. He’s barely finished typing his reply when another text comes in.

**[From: Andrew]** Why linguistics?

**[To: Andrew]** Har har.

 **[To: Andrew]** I like languages.

 **[To: Andrew]** Why cooking?

**[From: Andrew]** I like food.

Neil scoffs. If it wasn’t for the quick responses, he’d think Andrew didn’t actually want to talk to him.

**[To: Andrew]** Most people like food.

**[From: Andrew]** Most people like speaking.

**[To: Andrew]** Has anyone ever told you that you’re insufferable?

He sends the message, then gets off of the couch. A couple things need tidying in his kitchen, so he takes care of that as he waits for Andrew’s text, waking up his laptop so he can properly switch it off. He makes a mental note to go grocery shopping tomorrow before his first class, or else he’s really going to starve.

**[From: Andrew]** How unoriginal. I expected better from a linguist.

Neil finishes turning his laptop off with a smirk. That’s a challenge if he’s ever heard one.

**[To: Andrew]** Insupportable, then.

**[From: Andrew]** Sorry, already heard it.

**[To: Andrew]** Unerträglich.

**[From: Andrew]** Jeden Tag.

Neil grins. He hadn’t expected Andrew would know either French or German, but there’s no way he’s getting beat in his own field.

**[To: Andrew]** Inaguantable.

**[From: Andrew]** *yawn*

Neil snorts. He leans his hip against the counter and starts digging into the trickier languages he’s been learning. He makes it to three more translations off the top of his head, but the last one he has to google. He really should brush up on his Turkish, but he hasn’t found the time to do more than re-learn basic turns of phrases lately.

**[To: Andrew]** ανυπόφορος

 **[To: Andrew]** 我慢できない

 **[To: Andrew]** nieznośny

 **[To: Andrew]** dayanılmaz

**[From: Andrew]** Are you trying to prove to me that you know how google works?

**[To: Andrew]** Only for the last one.

**[From: Andrew]** How disappointing.

Neil snorts at his phone. He moves to his bedroom as he types, pressing send and changing into the baggy shorts and tee-shirt he wears to bed.

**[To: Andrew]** I know how to say “fuck you” in 12 languages though.

**[From: Andrew]** Careful, Neil. No one likes a show off.

**[To: Andrew]** You’re still here, aren’t you?

**[From: Andrew]** I’m bored. You’re an adequate distraction.

Neil glances at the upper corner of his phone, where the time shines. It’s 11:04.

**[To: Andrew]** I hear sleeping’s even better.

**[From: Andrew]** Yet here you are.

**[To: Andrew]** Not for long. Some people have classes in the morning.

**[From: Andrew]** Some people had the good sense not to go to college.

**[To: Andrew]** *middle finger*

**[From: Andrew]** It’s not even midnight. How early do you even plan to wake up?

**[To: Andrew]** Little before 6. Why?

05:45 am, to be exact. He has an early shift at the store, then classes right after. If he wants to squeeze a run in, he can’t wake up any later than that.

**[From: Andrew]** Call it morbid curiosity.

**[To: Andrew]** I don’t mind. I like being awake in the morning.

 **[To: Andrew]** You should try it sometime.

At this point in the year, the sun won’t even be up yet. He’ll run to the docks, and maybe catch the sunrise there. The bakeries will start to open on his way back, and he will be alone. He’s got another shift after his classes, so it’s the least he’ll need to make it through the day.

Andrew’s answer gets a smile out of Neil. 

**[From: Andrew]** I would literally rather die.

**[To: Andrew]** Suit yourself. I’m going to sleep.

 **[To: Andrew]** Good night, Andrew.

He presses send, and enters the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he’s done and moving back into his bedroom, his phone’s led light is blinking. He already knows what it will read, but he opens the message anyway.

  
**[From: Andrew]** Good night, Neil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Translation from Phonetics: _"Cry me a river. I sliced onions for three hours today." [return to text]_
> 
> Thanks a lot for reading! Hopefully I'll see you all again next month.
> 
> If you feel like boosting the odds that I'll post early (or hell, just on-schedule), I encourage you to leave a kudos and/or a comment. They make for great fuel. I'm also open to suggestions (and fact-checks)!
> 
> Also: please let me know if the text formatting is readable. I keep changing it.


	2. Midnight Drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil has a panic attack. He calls Andrew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey-o!  
> As promised, here's chapter 2, one month later. Big thanks once again to my beta, [makebelieveanything](https://archiveofourown.org/users/makebelieveanything/pseuds/makebelieveanything), for being the best.
> 
> I don't know if I'm going to be able to keep up the schedule, because I have been tragically consumed by the spn fandom (I accept condolences) and am now in the process of writing a fic for it. It's taken up a lot of my writing time.
> 
> What it means is that I'm still working on E&F, but not as often as I'd like. I have a couple chapters already written, though, and I'll keep up the monthly schedule for those! And maybe in two months I'll have made better progress. Who knows.
> 
> Anyway - Enjoy the new chapter!
> 
> [TW for Ch2: panic attack, with some sensory overload]

Neil hates working the closing shift on Fridays. It’s no one’s favorite shift on a regular day, but the influx of college students on their way to inebriation is constant this close to the weekend - one has to assume that it’s no different on Saturdays, but that, thankfully, is Neil’s day off. Weekends are for running and studying. Fridays, though - Fridays he has to work until the last minute.

It’s not that the customers are mean, because the promised freedom of the weekend tends to make people more agreeable than usual, but it’s that they’re  _ loud.  _ Numerous, too. And the later it is the less bashful they are about staring at Neil’s scars, like the six-packs piled on the conveyor belt have the airborne ability to loosen inhibitions before the cans are even open.

Sometimes, Neil wonders what insanity took hold of him when he applied for this job. Interacting with strangers is already taxing on a good day. From 7pm to midnight in a crappy underground store where he’s forced to put on a “polite and dynamic” front, it’s downright maddening. But it fills the gaps that his scholarship can’t fix, so he keeps at it.

It doesn’t help that his coworkers are shit. Or maybe that’s just Jack. He’s aggravating enough that it erases any and all attempts at good will from the others.

Today, of all Fridays, is an especially bad one. He wakes up with a migraine, for a start, and no amount of painkillers is able to quell it down before midday. Then the light bulb right above him keeps flickering during his afternoon class, and one of his classmates decides to waylay him for a whole half an hour before Neil finally manages to escape to the library so he can study before his shift. Even there, though, he’s surrounded by too many people - with the finals coming up, the room is filled with the chatter of study groups and the clinking of keyboards. By the time he has to make it to work, the migraine is back with a vengeance.

It only gets worse during his shift. Fridays mean he’s already spent several hours under the sick neon lights every day for the past week, including a late shift the night before, so the pressure is immediately pooling behind his eyes. There’s also the buzz of the fridges and the smell of the store, and the lack of natural light and the endless beeping of the scanning device, all muddling together into one giant, heavy cloud around him. When you add the lack of sleep and the spectre of finals looming ever closer on the horizon, well. Needless to say, by the time they’re closing, Neil is only held together by the flimsiest of threads.

The smell of the cleaning products, aggressively heady, is the final blow to his damaged self-control. He can still smell it when they’re done, fresh plants made of a thousand needles and the taste of cold iron around his tongue.

Stepping out into the night is a relief so huge he can’t hold back the sigh that slips out of his chest. He stands there, swallowing the quiet, for several minutes, until opening his eyes doesn’t feel like such an insurmountable task anymore.

It’s not enough. The booming laughter of a group of people passing by is sandpaper against his skin. Each car slicing the air in front of him might as well be running him over. The wind, cold and angry, pulls at his hair and crumples up his body, tighter and tighter until he’s sure the next gust will tear him apart. His flesh is at once too small to hold him and too thin against the immensity of sensations raging on the outside of his skin.

He has been split open too many times. Every wound, every bruise is a rift with scars for an opening, and the world has never wanted anything more than to shatter him whole.

Reminding himself that the wind has nothing against the heat of a cigarette lighter pressed to his cheek should not be as hard as it is. The memory of the pain, real and scorching, is jarring enough that he’s able to notice the object digging into his thigh - his key ring, shoved into the pocket of his pants. He fishes it out with trembling hands, then clenches his fist around the serrated steel as tight as he can, zeroing his attention to this single crossroad of him and not-him, the sharp proof of a present he chose and built from the corpses of his past.

_ This _ is, miraculously, enough. The world’s maw stops the hungry mincing of Neil, and little by little the overwhelming vacuum of his past subsides. It leaves him wrung, and drained. The week’s fatigue drops upon him like an anvil, and it’s only habit that keeps him upright. Still, if he went home, he wouldn’t sleep.

His hands are feeble around his phone. He manages to unlock it on the third try, though, so he figures the breathing exercises his therapist taught him really do work. He opens Matt’s contact by reflex, then glances at the time and thinks better of it. The last thing he wants is to wake up his friend at one in the morning because of the same issues he’s had for the last three years.

Deep breaths. He’s not alone in the world anymore, even when Matt is asleep. It’s a Friday night, which means Allison is out partying and nowhere close to going home. If he called her, she would be here in a matter of minutes. But she might be with Renee, and she would ask questions, and the last thing Neil needs right now is an interrogation.

He calls Andrew, in the end.

One, two, three. Neil breathes with the ringtones and Andrew picks up on the fourth.

“Neil.”

Neil lets the weight of his body finally drag him down, dropping into a sitting position right there on the ground. He relaxes his hold on the phone and sighs, eyes closing shut so the lights won’t distract him.

“I don’t have all night,” Andrew’s slightly distorted voice drones.

Neil wants to scoff, but what comes out is more of a choked-up gasp than anything else. They’ve been texting on and off ever since Wednesday evening; the last message he received was only fifteen minutes ago, when Andrew got out of work. He breathes, deeply, and focuses on making himself speak. “I can’t,” he starts. Stops. Swallows the desperate  _ I can’t go home  _ and tries again. “I had a panic attack.”

Silence. The clatter of something, too muffled for Neil to make out what made it over the phone.

“Where are you?”

“Work,” Neil answers automatically, opening his eyes to remember where exactly that might be. “The supermarket on Pacific Avenue. It’s next to the, uh, escape room thing?”

A grunt on the other end, then more clatter, and the tell-tale jingle of keys. Neil closes his eyes.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know. Shut up and stay there,” Andrew says, punctuating his sentence with a thud. It sounds like the compartment on his bike.

The call disconnects. Neil pulls his phone down to stare at it. The fourteen letters of Andrew’s name stare back. He doesn’t know what he expected but he feels stunned, anyway, in a confusing, dizzying way.

The wind makes confetti of him as he waits.

* * *

Many vehicles drive by. Neil trails after their rumbling like a windsock, the count of them a steady rhythm he is content to drift to. He doesn’t recognise the sound of Andrew’s bike, but it’s the only one that stops. When he opens his eyes, Andrew takes his helmet off and dismounts.

He’s wearing the same leather jacket he had on Saturday. Everything is black, except the pack of cigarettes he fishes out of his pocket, grabbing one for himself and holding another out for Neil. He crouches down to smoke, just a step of distance away from him. The smell burns down Neil’s nose, throat, lungs. By the time both of their cigarettes are spent there is nothing left of him but a pile of ash.

They drive towards the sea.

* * *

Neil doesn't remember when sensations started to pile up like this, pressing against one another until it felt like his skull would crack. Until smells filled his ears and sounds clamped his throat and bleeding memories of pain wrapped around his tongue.

His therapist says that it might be his body paying his mind back for all the trauma he filed away in sealed boxes. That the functions of his brain that he trained into hyper-awareness, unused to the sudden triviality of his existence, are spinning out of control and getting jammed over-processing innocuous sensations. Apparently the fact that it seems to happen almost exclusively in unfamiliar places or after work, which has been classified as a hostile environment by Neil's psyche, indicates a self-defense mechanism gone haywire.

_ It will get better the more used to it you become, _ she'd said.  _ Brains are more malleable than they seem. Yours just has to understand that your life is about more than survival now, and that’s what I’m here for. _

Neil thinks his brain might be a little slow on the learning. Maybe his father cut into that, too.

The engine buzzes between his thighs. Neil’s thoughts are blown away by the speed, the night, contact. They trail after them then scatter, flimsy and thin, under the stars.

Andrew’s back is a broad thing. Through the leather Neil can guess at the muscles he’d showcased at Eden’s. It’s a strange thing, to be sitting this close to someone and being unable to see their face. The wind whips around them, carrying smells of rubber and motor oil, hints of salt cutting through as they get closer to the shore. The orange of the city lights glows in cones and blurs, melts across the asphalt and blends with the headlamps going the other way.

They don’t go back to the pier. Instead Andrew pushes out of the city center and towards the older part of town, steers the bike towards the coast and stops in front of a flight of stairs. They go down the uneven steps in silence, Andrew’s hands in his pockets until they reach the harbor. There he points Neil to the right, along the docks and the fishing shacks.

It’s a small harbor. A natural creek turned anchorage for small fishing and pleasure boats alike, picturesque in its crookedness but too far away from any of the beaches to really appeal to the tourists - or any Friday night crowds. The only activity at this time of night comes from a small restaurant on the other side of the harbor’s U-shape, and from the looks of it they’re not interested in staying open much longer. Andrew leads Neil further, past the fishing shacks and the boats, where the dock turns into a seawall.

“Are we even allowed to go up there?”

Andrew hops upon the first of the large boulders and turns back, shadows playing with the volumes of his face. “Afraid you’ll slip?”

Neil scoffs. Andrew turns around and keeps walking, hopping from boulder to boulder. Neil follows.

Sea water has pooled in the crooks and valleys of the rocks. Where the sun and the wind hit the puddles all day long only salt crusts remain, fringes made of crystals and a stickiness on their fingers when they climb.

“Do you like the sea?”

Andrew turns a bored look on him. He lifts it, towards the sky, then drops it and shrugs. He moves along the boulders with ease, not a movement wasted on observation or balance. It’s clear he’s been here before.

Neil picks up his pace and joins Andrew at the end of the seawall. The boulders stop here, swallowed by the sea. Moon and city lights scatter against the water, soft ripples refracting a thousand scales, embracing them where it dances against the rocks.

Andrew looks at the water lapping their shore. “I like the calm.”

Neil hums. He feels bigger here. At the end of the world with no noise to peel off his skin. His ribcage caves and expands in rhythm with the waves.

They sit, close enough to the water that the salt kisses their tongues. The boulders are jagged and worn and make for poor seats, but Neil supposes that the view makes it worth it. There is still distance between them, but faced with the vastness of the sea it might as well be nothing.

How comforting, that the world is so wide.

“Thank you,” Neil says, eventually. He’s watching Andrew watch the night. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Andrew’s gaze finds him like the sun. It’s disconcerting, how interesting Andrew is to look at. Most people react with their heart on their skin, but Andrew barely lets his emotions take ahold of his bones. A lesson in subtlety.

“I didn’t,” Andrew agrees, voice flat. There’s something relaxed in the way he looks at Neil this time. He’s not trying to study him - he’s just looking. “But I know a thing or two about panic attacks. The sea always helps,” he tells the horizon.

Neil follows his eyes and lets his shoulders sag.

Rationally, sitting at the end of a seawall with a near stranger should not come easy to him. Dead-ends, with tricky ground no less, used to be the stuff of his nightmares. By all accounts he should feel trapped. He thinks a part of him is expecting to be, even now - is ready to tense up, ready to run, to fight, but the urge never comes.

“Have you always lived here?” Neil asks, watching Andrew’s profile. He wonders what it would look like in daylight, the color of his eyes, the sharp angles of his face. From the club to the street lights to the moon, the details of Andrew’s form seem to shift and transform in the night.

“No,” Andrew says. “About eight years.”

Neil exhales a sharp breath. When Andrew throws him a look he shakes his head, a tense little smile on his lips. “I moved a lot as a kid,” he explains, barely containing the bitterness clogging his throat. “I can’t imagine staying in one place this long.”

He’d stayed longer in Baltimore, but it hadn’t been by choice. Before Palmetto, the safe house had been his most stable home - and he’d only stayed there a year. Refraining himself from running had been a torture of its own.

Andrew’s stare is heavy again. Intent. Neil bears its weight without speaking. He’s too tired tonight to wind his way around the truth; too thin-skinned in his own mind to handpick at the past. Whatever Andrew reads on his face, it’s enough to keep him from prying.

“I followed my brother here,” Andrew tells him, instead of the question Neil expected. “When he moved out, I stayed.”

“Why?”

Andrew shrugs, his gaze lost to the night. The moon shines silver in his eyes. “I’d never lived by the sea before.”

A gust of wind whips Neil’s hair to the side, bringing droplets of seawater flying. Behind them, Neil can hear the boats rock gently in their beds. It’s oddly musical.

“Me neither.”

Andrew doesn’t look away from the ocean. The silence that falls between them is easy and comfortable, and Neil feels the week’s weariness catch up to him as he closes his eyes. He would have fallen asleep here, probably, if Andrew had waited just a few more minutes before rising to his feet and helping Neil get on his own.

* * *

Andrew drops him off in front of his building again. The ride was fast enough that Neil feels a little more awake, a little more centered and here. The physical aftermath of the panic attack will catch up with him tomorrow, he’s sure, but for now his mind is clear and his body is relaxed enough that he knows he’ll sleep like a baby.

“Thank you,” he says again as he hands the helmet back to Andrew.

Andrew ignores him in favor of opening his bike’s compartment and fishes out a plastic bag, holding it out to Neil with an impatient look on his face.

“Leftovers?” Neil guesses after peering inside and seeing three plastic containers.

Andrew moves to get back up on the bike and nods. “Tonight’s special. You should eat something.”

“What about you?”

“I work there. My fridge’s already full.”

“Thanks anyway,” Neil says, smiling. “Did you cook this?”

“No,” Andrew says, then puts his helmet on, signaling the end of the discussion. “Good night, Neil.”

“Good night, Andrew.”

The engine roars back to life, and Neil takes a step back to watch him drive away.

* * *

  
  


**[To: Andrew]** Meal was good.

**[To: Andrew]** If you keep making me eat other people’s food, I’ll start to believe you’re not that good yourself.

  
**[From: Andrew]** Maybe next time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> If you feel like boosting the odds that I'll post early (or hell, just on-schedule), I encourage you to leave a kudos and/or a comment. They make for great fuel. I'm also open to suggestions (and fact-checks)!
> 
> And, hey - if any of you fell down the spn stairs (or was already down there to begin with), let me know.


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